China Flyer (14 page)

A pall of dense mist enshrouded the three Imperial war junks anchored within the harbour’s western arm. Their deck lanterns shone no brighter than yellow smudges in the night.

Horne turned from the starboard windows of his floating prison, wondering again if Fanshaw had been correct in warning him that he would soon be moved from the junk to a land gaol.

His earlier feeling of frustration had mellowed into a calm composure as he systematically considered the options open to him. After trying the door and inspecting the narrow windows lining both sides of the cabin, he abandoned any hope of immediate escape. Even the wooden louvres beneath the windows would be too noisy to remove from their frames. There might be an opportunity to break away from an escort if he was transferred to a prison on land, but he could not plan for that without knowing the size of his escort, or the method of
transport
.

Instead, he spent his time going over the defence he would present at the court of inquiry George Fanshaw had said he would have to face. The job would be to persuade the interrogators that the East India Company had sent him to Canton to recover the
China
Flyer
and deliver George Fanshaw back to Fort St George. It would be his word against Fanshaw’s if the written orders had been destroyed.

Horne’s case would be simpler if the Chinese gave his Marines a chance to testify about the reason for the mission;
but were the men still here in Whampoa? If Fanshaw had not been lying about the
Huma
being towed back down the Pearl River, Babcock, Groot, Jingee, Jud and Kiro might have rejoined the crew before the ship returned to Macao and the opium depot on Kam-Sing-Moon.

A sound disturbed his thoughts.

Lying motionless on his pallet, he stared blankly at the oil lamp flickering beside his pallet as he listened to the soft warble of a bird.

Why did the call sound so familiar? Where had he heard it before? Bombay? Years ago in England?

The gentle cooing sounded a second time, unobtrusive yet definitely unique.

Bird calls? What do they mean to me? What association do I have with that call and …

The soft tremolo came a third time.

Horne remembered.

It was the same call Cheng-So Gilbert had imitated in his first days out of Madras—the sound of the Whampoa waterfowls that were so delicious to eat.

Swinging his bare feet to the deck, Horne moved to the starboard windows and looked down at the courtesans’ sampans bobbing gently below him. Through the mist, he saw that one sampan had drifted closer to the junk than the others, and that a fat-faced girl was looking up at him.

Was she a late-comer hoping to join the guards’ party on the poop-deck? Or had she purposely been left aboard the sampan by her friends? Or was it possible that …

The waterfowl’s warble came again. Horne moved to look out of the other side of the cabin. There was a face pressed against the panes, and he came to a stop in the middle of the cabin.

Jingee! Hanging by a … rope?

Crossing the cabin in three strides, Horne blew out the lantern beside the bed and fell to his knees. He crawled towards the junk’s larboard windows and pressed his
mouth against the low louvres, whispering, ‘What are you doing here?’

Jingee’s voice came to him through the slats. ‘We came to rescue you, Captain sahib.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘We swam ashore and stole boats, Captain sahib.’

‘Where have the Chinese been keeping you?’

‘On the next junk, Captain sahib. Earlier today we saw an Englishman row out to this ship. That’s how we guessed you were here.’

‘That was Fanshaw.’

‘So we guessed, Captain sahib.’

‘Did you all escape?’

‘In two groups, Captain sahib.’

‘Who’s here with you?’

‘Kiro and the Chinaman are with me, Captain sahib. Babcock, Groot, and Jud are below in a sampan from a flower house on shore.’

Horne remembered the fat-faced courtesan looking up at his cabin.

‘Are you armed?’ he asked.

‘Kiro and I have knives.’

Horne explained, ‘I tried opening the windows and removing these louvres, but I can’t do it without creating a disturbance.’

‘I saw you have one guard outside your door, Captain sahib. Are there others?’

‘Yes, but they’re merrymaking with the women. My guard goes and returns. I hear his footsteps.’

‘Shall I ambush him, Captain sahib?’

‘Where’s Kiro?’

‘Knotting a rope to the starboard side. To escape to the sampan.’

‘Cheng-So Gilbert?’

‘Rowing our little boat round to the sampan.’

‘Do we know if the women are trustworthy?’

‘Two have drunk themselves into unconsciousness, Captain sahib. The fat one’s ready to pass out.’

Horne weighed the preparations his men had made—boats, rope, knives. Realising that the escape must be quick and kept as simple as possible, he explained to Jingee how they should proceed.

Horne tapped lightly on the cabin door. He did not want to arouse the revellers on the poop-deck, but at the same time he had to attract the guard’s attention.

Rapping louder, he paused when he heard footsteps approaching the iron-banded door. Listening more closely he could hear only distant raucous laughter, the giggling of women, the sound of a stringed instrument enlivening the midnight party.

He knocked a third time, venturing in English. ‘Please, I must speak to you.’

As a key sounded in the lock, he prepared an excuse for having the door opened in case Jingee had not reached the agreed spot. The metallic scratch of the key stopped abruptly and, outside the door, he heard a thud.

There was another silence and then the key sounded again in the lock.

Horne stood back from the door as it opened a few inches. He pushed it wider and stepping out of the cabin, spotted the guard slumped on the deck. No one else was in sight. Pulling the guard into the cabin, he shoved him on to the pallet, pulled the blanket over him and crept back to the door.

From the protection of the shadows, he saw the revellers gathered round the glow of their lanterns and charcoal braziers on the poop-deck. Satisfied that he was temporarily unobserved, he hoisted himself on to the cabin roof and, finding the rope knotted there by Kiro, dropped over the
starboard side, lowering himself hand-over-hand to the water. Then he released the rope and swam silently towards the sampan.

The boat was sitting low in the water, and Horne pulled himself cautiously aboard, wary of the sampan capsizing under the heavy passenger load.

As soon as Horne rolled aboard, the boat began moving. The chubby courtesan sat propped against the stern but was too inebriated to paddle. As she smiled blankly into the night, Jud and Kiro lay flat on both sides, paddling from prone positions with oars taken from the fisherman’s boat they were towing.

Satisfied with their progress, Horne crawled to the curtained awning, the stench of alcohol assailing his nostrils as he entered. Babcock, Groot and Jingee were there, waiting anxiously between the unconscious bodies of two painted courtesans, loud snores emerging from the women’s gaping mouths.

The morning light was breaking over the pine-covered hills as Horne moved down the Pearl River with his men and Cheng-So Gilbert. Two hours had passed since they had abandoned the courtesans, bound and gagged, under a willow tree and stripped their sampan of its decorative lanterns and cushions. They had continued down river, travelling in two groups to avoid attracting unnecessary attention to themselves on their way to Macao.

Horne went with Jud, Groot and Cheng-So Gilbert in the sampan. Babcock, Kiro and Jingee kept to the reeds on the opposite bank, paddling the fisherman’s boat. Both groups wore oddments of clothing they had stolen from washing lines in fishing villages along the way.

A ragged piece of homespun hung from Horne’s head to his shoulders as he poled the sampan through the eddying shallows, eyes alert as Groot and Gilbert sat watchful near the prow.

River traffic had been sparse throughout the dark morning hours. Every owl’s hoot and crane’s flutter had tried the men’s nerves, but the only travellers they had seen were two sampans moving in the opposite direction. The peasants showed little interest in Horne’s men; they likewise pretended to be undisturbed by them. The journey continued southwards, slow and monotonous, the two groups periodically emerging from the reeds, waving a brown rag to signal they were maintaining their progress.

After sunrise, when Groot was due to take over the pole,
Horne heard a noise behind him. Glancing over his shoulder he saw a mast above the distant rushes.

Whistling, he waved Groot to his knees.

Groot spotted the tall mast rounding the bend, but Cheng-So Gilbert had not yet seen it.

When he eventually caught sight of the approaching vessel, he gasped, ‘The Imperial flag.’

Horne had already identified the official Manchu dragon; he beckoned Gilbert to him, ordering, ‘Take the pole instead of Groot.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Gilbert.

Horne waved for Groot, answering, ‘Inside.’

The vessel was rapidly gaining distance on the far side of the river. Horne observed their progress through the leather curtain, guessing, ‘They could be looking for us.’

‘Do you think Babcock’s seen it?’ asked Groot beside him.

Horne was concerned about the same thing. It was time for the other men to signal from the reeds and, if they had not spotted the patrol boat, they would emerge directly in front of it.

‘Gilbert, call to them,’ ordered Horne through the curtain.

‘To Mr Babcock?’

‘To the patrol.’

‘Call what?’

‘Anything. But shout loud enough to alert the others that somebody’s nearby. Quick.’

‘What if they come and search us?’ asked Gilbert.

‘We have to risk that,’ Horne said. ‘Remember you’re a fisherman. Don’t sound too educated.’

Horne, Groot and Jud lay motionless inside the curved cabin, careful not to rock the sampan as Cheng-So Gilbert poled his way out through the reeds.

‘He’s going to give us away,’ whispered Groot.

‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t capsize the boat.’

‘Or get caught in the river’s main current,’ added Jud.

‘Or drop the pole.’

Outside the cabin, Gilbert had begun calling to the patrol, his voice quavering with nerves.

‘Louder,’ Horne urged through the curtain.

Groot whispered, ‘What do you think he’s saying.’

They fell silent as a reply came back across the river. They exchanged glances, listening, expecting the patrol to cross the swift-moving current …

But nothing.

‘You can come out now,’ whispered Gilbert.

Horne peered through the leather curtain. The patrol was moving down river. Across the wide body of water, a brown cloth waved from the reeds—all was clear.

‘What did you say to get rid of them so quickly, Mr Gilbert?’ Horne asked, crawling from the cabin.

‘I called out that my poor wife and eight children had lost all control of their bowels. I asked the patrol boat if they would take them down river to Macao. I said that only my grandmother knows how to stop the crying woman and sick babies from making such an awful mess.’

‘What made you think of that?’

Gilbert sheepishly dropped his eyes. ‘Because I was about to do that very thing myself, Captain Horne.’

The men were tired and ravenously hungry by the time they reached Macao the next day. They had moored four times since leaving Whampoa, stopping to sleep when the river traffic was at its height, and to share the small bits of fish and curd Cheng-So Gilbert had managed to buy from a passing sampan.

Activity was at its busiest in Macao during the morning, barges and junks and small reed coracles moving to and fro past the twin forts that guarded the harbour entrance. But there was no sign of the
Huma
or the
China
Flyer
at anchorage within the harbour. Horne conceded that Fanshaw had not been lying to him, that the
Huma
had been taken to Kam-Sing-Moon for the chests of opium to be unloaded at the government’s depot.

Groot said, ‘I bet the
China
Flyer’s
also been taken to that island. She must have had cargo when we saw her in Whampoa. She sat low in the water,
schipper.
’

‘We’ll soon find out.’ Horne looked at the men, asking, ‘Are you willing to try slipping past those two forts out there?’

‘We made it this far,’ said Babcock, pulling on his big ear.

‘What other choice do we have, Captain Sahib?’

‘None, Jingee. That’s our one way to the sea and
Kam-Sing
-Moon.’

Cheng-So Gilbert, bolstered by his success in fending off the patrol boat and securing food for the men, bragged, ‘Why would they stop us? We’re only lowly fishermen. Let
me
get us through!’

The men exchanged glances. Did pride truly go before a fall?

The sun shone dully on the slate hillside forming the conical island of Kam-Sing-Moon. Porters moved back and forth, carrying bow-topped chests from the
China
Flyer
at the end of the wharf to the warehouse at the foot of the barren mountain.

When the porters had concluded their task, Lothar Schiller greeted their supervisor at the port entry and accepted the receipt for Fanshaw’s
cumshaw
of opium.

‘I assume that clears me to leave,’ said Schiller in German, knowing no Chinese to speak to the depot official.

The supervisor bowed his head with its cylindrical blue cap, replying in Chinese as he gestured towards the
Huma
anchored across the natural harbour. Schiller understood that the man wanted him to move alongside the Bombay Marine frigate.

Watching the official turn on the gangplank and stride back up the wharf to the warehouse, Schiller thought of Fanshaw’s instructions: the
China
Flyer
was to remain here at Kam-Sing-Moon until Fanshaw arrived from Whampoa.

What if he were to abandon Fanshaw and leave China without him?

Schiller doubted if the depot officials could detain him here. Within the last hour, the island guard had come to the end of their watch and, at the moment, only two cumbersome junks lay in the harbour, obviously waiting for the next watch to arrive.

But, then, did the Chinese even care what Schiller did now that they had taken what they wanted from the hold?

The Co-Hung, too, might be detaining Fanshaw in Canton, forbidding him to rejoin his captain and crew. Fanshaw had worried about such an event.

Schiller mounted the quarter-deck, weighing the
possibility
of striking out from Chinese waters against the alternative of waiting here for Fanshaw and the gold owing to him and the crew.

But had not Fanshaw renegued on his promises before? He had not paid the men on their arrival in Whampoa, nor, before that, when they had reached Macao. And what about when he had bribed the men to fire on the helpless Sulu islanders and then failed to honour his promise?

Fanshaw was planning to sail to London. Schiller had learnt that much from him. He suspected that Fanshaw would next promise to pay them when they reached England.

Schiller would like to go back to England … but how badly?

To bring a ship from the Orient represented a major feat for any seaman. He could find a good job in London with such credentials.

Contemplating the arduous voyage down the South China Sea, across the Indian Ocean, and up the west coast of Africa to Europe, he worried about the
condition
of the
China
Flyer.
At least a month of repairs was necessary—no, vital. Fanshaw had less respect for the
China
Flyer
than he did for the crew. Schiller doubted if they could sail as far as Africa’s Cape without trouble.

The alternative was Madras.

Should he risk returning to Madras and learning whether the East India Company had put a price on his head for being an accomplice with George Fanshaw?

As Schiller crossed his quarter-deck, his attention focused on the
Huma.
Seeing activity in the shrouds of the Marine frigate, he wondered if she was preparing to weigh anchor.

Horne and his men lay in a line along Kam-Sing-Moon’s jagged crest, looking down at the Chinese porters unloading wooden chests from the
China
Flyer
and carrying them to the warehouse at the head of the pier, like ants burdened with breadcrumbs.

Jingee lay next to Horne above the crescent-shaped harbour. He pointed down to the grey-tiled warehouse, whispering, ‘That must be the opium depot, Captain sahib.’

Groot observed from the other side of Horne, ‘Those chests must be Fanshaw’s gift to the Hoppo.’

Jingee added, ‘I wonder if Fanshaw’s come down river yet from Canton.’

Horne’s interest was focused on the
Huma,
observing that the sails were furled but the anchor not dropped. The Chinese must believe taut cables held the ship more effectively in its anchorage.

Jud spotted activity on deck. ‘The crew’s still aboard, sir.’

Horne had also seen the brown-skinned sailors and was greatly relieved.

‘How many guards do you think are posted with our men?’ asked Kiro on the far side of Groot.

The distance between the summit and harbour was too great for Horne to see men’s features or clothing. He longed for his spyglass.

‘Men, we shall follow separate paths down the slope,’ he said finally, after studying the two ships and the pair of junks anchored beyond.

He pointed to the
Huma.
‘Jingee and Kiro, do you see those shore cables?’

They saw the black lines stretching from the larboard side to the rocky shoreline.

Horne swept his finger to the right of the mountainside. ‘You follow the gully down … there. Wait behind that
boulder for me to give you a signal. Then start climbing the aft cables.’

He continued to the others. ‘You three keep to the ridge. Run along the right ledge. Come out down there by the … prow. See?’

Babcock, Groot and Jud followed the direction of Horne’s finger, nodding as they understood the route to the southern promontory.

Horne concluded, ‘Mr Gilbert, you stay behind with me.’

Gilbert’s excitement was growing, his confidence swollen by his success in guiding the Marines safely past the twin forts at the entrance to Macao harbour.

‘What do you want me to do this time, Captain Horne?’ he asked, feeling like a Bombay Marine himself.

‘I’ll tell you when the time comes, Mr Gilbert.’

Horne looked back at Kiro and Jingee. ‘Remember, wait for my signal.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ answered Kiro.

Horne glanced once more from the junks to the pier, to the warehouse, before ordering, ‘Now … go!’

Kiro led the way, followed by Jingee bent forward in a crouch. A few moments later Babcock, Groot and Jud disappeared in the opposite direction. Horne watched the five men darting from cover to cover, creeping down the mountainside. Then he beckoned to Cheng-So Gilbert to follow him.

He went slowly, periodically cautioning Gilbert not to move too quickly and create a landslide. The sun was high and the wind off the open sea did little to cool the heat reflected from the slate mountainside. As Horne crept cautiously downwards, his eyes darted from the
Huma
to the porters still moving along the wharf with the opium chests, to the two junks now directly below him in the cove.

Reaching the foot of the incline, he checked to see that the Marines were all in place before he whispered to Gilbert, ‘Now. Get ready to call.’

‘Call?’

‘To the guards aboard the
Huma.’

‘Chinese guards?’ Cheng-So Gilbert looked alarmed, his new-found confidence disappearing. ‘But, Captain, I don’t know what dialect they speak, what to say …’ Trembling, he mopped the perspiration from his brow.

‘Use a court dialect,’ Horne instructed him. ‘Demand to speak to their commander-in-chief. Be forceful.’

Gilbert glanced nervously round the harbour. ‘Won’t …
they
hear me?’ He nodded at the porters still trudging between the warehouse and the
China
Flyer.

‘Not if you don’t scream at the top of your lungs.’

Not waiting for Gilbert to protest further, Horne pushed him from the protection of the rock.

As the Chinaman splashed into the shallow cove, hailing the
Huma
in Chinese, Horne signalled to Jingee and Kiro to make their move.

Aboard ship, the crew ran to the rail with three guards when they heard Gilbert’s voice. Recognising the chubby Chinese interpreter standing knee-deep in the lapping water, they looked beyond him and saw Horne, and they quickly overpowered the guards.

By then, the Marines had already begun climbing the far cables.